I hadn't known that he'd tried to intercede for me. "It was kind of you to take the trouble, sir."

"A commander must concern himself with whatever affects the morale of his troops," Mac said dryly. "As it turned out, I accomplished nothing in your behalf, quite the contrary. Your wife was very nice, very attentive, and quite horrified. She kept looking me over carefully to see where I kept my horns and tail."

I said, "I've often wondered about that myself, sir." After a moment, I asked, "Did you meet this fellow Logan, the one she later married?"

"Yes, he owns and manages the guest ranch at which she was staying. He seemed pleasant enough; a lean British type with a sandy Air Force moustache. I had a feeling he might be able to take care of himself in a pinch, but it's hard to tell with these understated, expatriate Englishmen. They all make a point of looking as if one could knock them over with a feather, and sometimes one can."

I glanced at the note I was still holding, folded it, and put it in my pocket. "In her covering letter, Beth didn't give you any hint of what kind of difficulty she's in that she expects me to fix up for her?"

"And it's okay if I take a little time off to investigate?" He nodded. "You have a vacation coming, Eric." He looked at me over the desk, studying me as if to see if I'd changed in any way since I'd last been in that office. "When you get to Reno, check in at the Riverside Motel," he said. "There'll be a reservation waiting for you." He wrote something on a piece of paper and held it out.

I looked at him hard. "What's this?"

"A contact number in Reno. Agent Paul. Memorize and destroy."

I said dryly, "A vacation, I think you said, sir."

"Paul is quite young and inexperienced. He may need help."

"Doing what?"

"Don't ask unless you really want to know."

I said, "It's his assignment, I gather. If he needs me, he can brief me."

"Precisely," Mac said. "When you've seen him, if you see him, let me know what you think. I don't feel he's going to work out for us. One can't do much with these infants brought up on peace and togetherness." He hesitated. "You can use him if you like, but only if you need assistance badly. Our people have other things to do than look after independent knights-errant on private missions for their ladies fair."

I said, "She's not my lady fair, she's Logan's. She makes that pretty plain."

"She makes it plain," Mac murmured. "Nevertheless, it's you to 'whom she's turned for help, not Logan. But no doubt that's occurred to you." After a moment, he said, dismissing me: "Don't forget to stop by the recognition room on your way out. There may be some new faces in the files since you left the country."

THE RECOGNITION ROOM shares the basement of the building with a fancy filing system that was discarded by the FBI or somebody when IBM or somebody sold them a still fancier one. Although technically obsolete, it's good enough for us. We don't have to keep tabs on all the criminals in the world, or even all the spies and secret agents. We just concentrate on the people in our own line of business, and there aren't too many of those. It's an exacting and unrewarding profession, by most standards.

I heard Mac repeat his stock inspirational lecture on the subject last fall before 1 went overseas. At the time, taking a refresher course of training to make up for my fifteen-year layoff, I was a member of a class of seven bright young things, male and female, all terribly eager to see the top man in the flesh for the first time, and three hard-bitten retreads like myself, all trying to keep from yawning. We'd seen him.

"It's a war of sorts, ladies and gentlemen," Mac had said, standing before us, "and you can consider yourselves soldiers of sorts, but I'd rather you wouldn't. Don't make up any pretty mental pictures. If you were working for a criminal organization, you'd be known as enforcers. Since you're working for a sovereign nation, you can call yourselves… well, removers is a very good word. It describes the job with reasonable accuracy…

I went through the current files carefully, refreshing my memory about my fellow-removers in the services of other countries-the ones known to be operating in the United States, particularly. There were people in the service of friendly nations, who were to be treated with consideration if possible. Of course, it wasn't always possible. There were the small fry of the opposing team, who were merely to be reported if seen. Finally, there were tie other side's big guns, as far as we had them spotted. There were Dickman, Holz, Rosloff, Martell, and a deadly female we knew only as Vadya, all with the highest priority. Of these, only one had been reported in the country recently. I frowned and went back through the cards.

"Martell," 1 said. "I thought he'd dropped out of sight after that Berlin business. Give him to me on the projector, please, Smitty."

Smitty limped to the rear of the room and turned on the machine. He limped because he didn't have much in the way of feet. They had been operated on drastically by some gentlemen in search of information. Various other parts of Smitty were also missing, and there were scars that didn't make him very pleasant to look at.

Mac had given him this job upon his discharge from the hospital, since he was obviously no longer fit for field duty. Don't think for a moment it was just a generous gesture towards a disabled employee. We all had to check with the recognition room before we went out on assignment; we all had to see Smitty therefore, before every job. It was an antidote for optimism and overconfidence, since it was well known that Smitty had been as good as any of us, in his time. He'd just been a little careless, once.

The picture came on the screen. Projecting it didn't help much. If a picture is lousy to start with, blowing it up doesn't improve it-something the TV manufacturers don't seem to have discovered yet. This was just a fuzzy telephoto shot of a man getting out of a car, taken at extreme range by a hidden photographer who should have used a heavier tripod to hold his equipment steady. The printing on the card came through nice and clear, however.

Martell, I read, Vladimir. 5' 11", 190 lbs., black hair, wide forehead, heavy eyebrows, brown eyes, straight nose, thick lips, strong chin. Fingerprints as Martell not on record, but see below. Expert pistol, poor rifle, adequate knife and unarmed combat. Not known to drink excessively. Not known to use drugs. No known homosexual tendencies. Officially reprimanded 47 and 50 for attentions to women leading to neglect of duty. Responsible death Agent Francis in Berlin Sep 51. Unreported until Feb 60 when seen in Miami Beach acting as bodyguard for Dominic Rizzi, using name Jack Fenn. Found to have established, under this name, authentic criminal record dating back to 53 (see reverse for details and fingerprints). Purpose of cover unknown. Current mission unknown. Present whereabouts unknown. Priority One.

So they'd found him and lost him; somebody would have caught hell for that. I frowned at the figure on the screen. One of the short-range lads; he didn't like a rifle. A ladies' man; and he must be damn good at his work to still be in business with two counts of that against him. His employers weren't noted for leniency towards agents who goofed off after women.

"Who's Rizzi?" I asked.

"His line was dope, mainly," Smitty said, behind me. "He's in jail now. He was caught in the Appalachian roundup of syndicate big-shots."

"That would put Mr. Martell out of a job," I said. "Well, he shouldn't have much trouble finding himself a new position. He's spent seven or eight years building himself a cover as torpedo for the syndicate, judging by what it says here." I grimaced at the fuzzy image on the screen. "He's well qualified, you've got to hand him that. Those gangsters will never hire a better-trained hatchet man. Let's hope they appreciate him. I just wonder what the hell he's up to, playing hoodlum."